**”Steaks, Gynaecology, and the Peak of Desire”**
When Nigel Whitcombe dropped off his latest fling, he even gave her a tender peck on the cheek and waved as she left. The sweet trace of her perfume still lingered in the air, and on his lips, the bitter taste of betrayal. He took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition—time to head home.
Outside his flat in Manchester, he hesitated. He stood there a moment, scrambling for the right words. He needed to say it clearly, like a man. With finality. He couldn’t bear this dull, cold, predictable family life any longer. He craved passion. Something to set his nerves alight. And he’d found it—in the alluring Dr. Emily Hawthorne.
He took the stairs instead of waiting for the lift, drew a breath, and opened the door.
“Hello?” he announced, stepping inside. “Claire, you home?”
“Obviously,” came her indifferent reply. “So, Nigel, fancy some steak tonight?”
There it was. The moment of truth. Whitcombe straightened up, cleared his throat, and delivered his line:
“Claire, we need to talk… I think it’s time we parted ways.”
No explosion of emotion followed. No shouting, no accusations. Claire didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
“So no steak, then?” she asked lazily, peering out from the kitchen.
“Your call. Fry some if you like, or don’t. I’m leaving. For another woman.”
A normal wife might have made a scene—screamed, maybe even hurled something heavy. But Claire wasn’t normal.
“Please tell me you didn’t forget my boots from the cobbler’s again,” she said flatly.
“Damn… I did,” Nigel muttered, flushing. “But I can go fetch them now if you want!”
“Oh, brilliant. Send you for boots and you’ll drag back some mouldy old pair. Typical Whitcombe,” she sighed. “You’re not a man, just a wet blanket with an engineering degree.”
Nigel felt his carefully rehearsed speech crumbling. This wasn’t how he’d imagined the evening going. Not how he’d pictured the end of married life.
“Claire, you’re not listening! I’m serious. I don’t love you anymore! I’m in love with someone else! I’m leaving!”
“Fantastic,” she replied. “Your shoes aren’t at the cobbler’s. Off you pop, then.”
He nearly choked. God, arguing with her was impossible! Once, he’d fallen for that calm—her quiet strength, iron logic, astonishing practicality. Now, it felt like a brick wall he’d smashed into at full speed.
“I… I’m grateful for everything,” he tried again. “But I’m leaving. Because I’ve found real love.”
“Jessica Whittaker?” Claire asked casually.
“W-what? No!” Nigel stammered. “How do you even know her?”
“Or Lucy Pembroke? You were late coming home that Friday with her…”
He fell silent. His back prickled with sweat.
“No. Not Pembroke. Not Whittaker. It’s Emily. Dr. Emily Hawthorne. Thirty-five, one child, two terminations… You have to understand—she’s the love of my life.”
“You’re a walking disaster, Whitcombe,” Claire said, pouring herself tea. “Do you even know who you’re tangled up with?”
“I know I love her,” he hissed. “And I’m going to be with her.”
“Ever read her medical history?”
“N-no…”
“I have. Because I’m a gynaecologist. With experience. I know where you’ve been even when you’ve forgotten. In this city, I’ve examined half the women you’ve only flirted with. Trust me—Hawthorne isn’t a prize. She’s a medical anomaly.”
“So, what are you saying?” he asked, defeated.
“First,” Claire said, “take a shower. Second, I’ll call Dr. Harrison at the clinic—get you seen without the queue. And third—sit down, think, and stop embarrassing yourself.”
“But I—I’m—”
“Go shower,” she cut in. “I’ll fry the steaks. If you ever want a proper woman, let me know. I’ll find you one. No surprises.”
And Whitcombe shuffled off to the bathroom without another word. In his dreams, he left dramatically, with fireworks. In reality, he left—for the soap.
